It also means that the tomatoes have revived. I plant tomatoes in March. By May, I'm harvesting delicious orbs of juicy goodness and I can usually keep picking until the Fiery Days of August. At that point, the blossoms can't cope with the heat, so the plants go into decline. I've learned, however, to just wait. I learned it because, of course, in September, I've always been so completely overwhelmed by the start of a new school year, that I don't even think about gardening. Then, when we get into a groove about mid-October, I surface from the maelstrom, and remember that plants are growing in my backyard.
The first year, I went out there and discovered (to my delight!) that some newly grown leaves had appeared on the scorched and withered tomato plants. And--look at that: a blossom or two had peeped out with them! So, we trimmed off the dried, dead portions and let the new, brave leaves have all the space. We were eating fresh tomatoes until December, when the temperatures dipped below freezing one night.
This year, I used my careful technique of horticultural neglect again. On Saturday, I spent an hour digging up weeds, trimming away browned remains of old leaves, transplanting volunteer marigolds and revived my garden again. See the little hardy volunteers on these tomato plants? I also seeded a section of my raised bed with lettuce and spinach. We ate several salads from our plantings last spring. I'm hoping to get a few more servings this fall.
There are two small tomatoes on this plant, and several blossoms.
This one has a group of blossoms and a hardy collection of new leaves.
These marigolds were just growing as volunteers in the garden bed, so I moved a bunch of them into several pots on the patio.
See, you have to give up swimming, but you gain homegrown tomatoes. I consider that a pretty good bargain. The pleasures of autumn in the desert are just as nice as the swimming in the summer, made possible by my old friend, Mr. Sun.
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